


Conspiracy Theory

by earlgreytea68



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2238933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost everything can be explained away with "aliens did it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conspiracy Theory

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Природа и Воспитание: Теория заговора (Conspiracy Theory)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090439) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)



> This is basically crackfic for MY OWN STUFF, so I actually feel like I'm lying saying it's in the Sherlock or Doctor Who fandom. It's not: it's in the Chaosverse and N&Nverse fandom, basically. And this is not canon, really, for either 'verse, I just...couldn't resist.
> 
> Translated into Russian here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11090439

To say that Oliver had a job would be incorrect. Oliver had a _calling_. 

His calling involved him standing in northern Scotland in the freezing cold, staring at the pulverized remains of several sheep. 

“I can’t see anything,” Dad sniped at him from the phone where Oliver was trying to show him the state of the field. 

“Because there isn’t anything to see,” Oliver said. “The fragments are so minute that the resolution isn’t high enough on the phone to pick them up.”

“Fix that,” said Dad. 

“I’ll invent better resolution for the phone right away,” said Oliver, because he was used to his father. 

Dad sighed, which Oliver knew he did because he wished he was in Scotland instead of in Sussex at the moment, and said, “So what’s your theory?” 

Oliver stared at the itty-bitty piece of sheep all around him and tried to make it make sense. He couldn’t come up with a theory that made all the pieces _fit_. Usually he started with a dozen solid theories and then whittled away at them as he learned more and more facts but now he was drawing a blank. “I don’t have a theory,” he admitted, feeling slightly ashamed. 

“Oh, no,” groaned Dad. 

“What?” asked Oliver, slightly alarmed. 

“That means your uncle is involved. Whenever something happens that makes zero sense, Mycroft is _always_ involved.” 

“Why would Uncle Mycroft be involved with pulverized sheep in Scotland?” 

“Why is your uncle involved in _anything_?” complained Dad. 

“I’ll ring him and ask him if he pulverized any sheep in Scotland,” said Oliver, toeing at a tiny bit of wool underneath his shoe. 

“Better you than me,” sniffed Dad. “Tell him I do _not_ say hello.” 

“Yeah,” said Oliver, with a grin, and then rang his uncle. “Dad says so many hellos,” he told him. “A multitude of hellos. A profusion of them.” 

“Something I can do for you?” asked his uncle, dryly. 

“Did you pulverize the sheep in Scotland?” said Oliver. 

“Are you involved in that?” 

“To the extent that I’m trying to solve it, yes.” 

“Well, let me know if you get anywhere, because my people are stumped.”

“So it wasn’t you?” 

“No. Do you have a theory?” 

“No. And Dad said whenever we don’t have theories, it means you’re involved.” 

“Flattering. But he’s wrong. I am not involved. Be careful, would you? I didn’t know you were up there.” 

“Because I slipped your surveillance around Durham.” 

“Yes, I’m well aware,” said his uncle, stiffly. 

“I’ll ring you when I’ve solved it,” said Oliver, hanging up his phone and tucking it into his pocket. And then he crouched down and started systematically gathering evidence again. He’d done it already but maybe he’d see something else this time around. It was the kind of situation where he felt Papa could have helped, by asking just the right stupid question. Oliver was on the verge of calling Dad back to tell him to put Papa on the phone when someone behind him said, “It’s aliens.” 

Oliver glanced over his shoulder at the man who was standing there. About Oliver’s age. Maybe slightly older. Weird anachronistic Victorian-style greatcoat complete with a velvet cape. Hair that was sticking up every which way intentionally. Nutter, thought Oliver. More conspiracy theory nutters stalked crime scenes than you might think. “Thanks,” he said, and turned back to his investigation. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“No, I mean it,” the man insisted, and Oliver felt him walking up behind him and braced himself in case he needed to go on the defensive. “It was aliens. They really like to eat lamb.” 

“They destroyed the lambs,” Oliver pointed out. 

“That’s eating for an alien. Wellll, some aliens. You know how it is.” 

“I definitely do not know how it is,” said Oliver, wondering why he was involved in this conversation, and then the man crouched down next to him and pointed some sort of device at Oliver’s evidence and there was some kind of buzzing noise and Oliver said, in alarm, “What the hell is that thing?”

“Sonic screwdriver,” said the man. 

Oliver had never heard of such a tool. “What does it do?” he asked, curiously. Papa was always saying that curiosity was going to kill him one of these days. Papa didn’t say it as if he thought it was charming. 

“Everything,” said the man. “Except for wood. It’s rubbish at wood. I thought it was just my father being lazy with the settings, but no, it’s rubbish at wood.” 

Oliver didn’t understand much about this speech, and that was what made it _enthralling_. The number of things Oliver encountered that he didn’t understand was vanishingly small. 

“Can I see it?” he asked, fascinated. 

After a moment, the man handed it across carefully. “Don’t break it,” he said. “They’re terrors to fix.” 

“I’m not going to break it.” Oliver examined it as closely as possible, frowning at it. Then he said, “But it doesn’t make sense.”

“Makes perfect sense. You have a limited definition of the word ‘sense.’”

Oliver bristled. “I don’t have a limited definition of the word ‘sense.’ I have a definition of the word ‘sense.’ It’s the word’s definition.” 

“Narrow-minded,” said the man, and took the thing, whatever it was, back and then actually _rapped at Oliver’s head_. 

Oliver jerked backwards and narrowed his eyes and said, “Sorry, of course, I’m sure it’s alien technology.” 

The man smiled at him as if he’d just told a hilarious joke, and Oliver was all grown-up now and really very well-adjusted and all that but Oliver was aware he was never going to quite get over being _laughed_ at. So Oliver scowled and stood and was about to walk away when the man said, “Let me show you something.” 

“You should know,” said Oliver, evenly, “if you’re going to try to kill me, it would be tremendously ambitious of you.” 

“I’m Brem,” said the man, smiling at him still. 

Oh, Christ, and he was one of those pretentious people who did last-name introductions, thought Oliver, thinking of Eton. “Watson-Holmes,” he said, shaking Brem’s hand. 

“Watson-Holmes. That’s quite a name. What do they call you for short?”

“By my _first name_ ,” said Oliver, sourly. 

Brem cocked his head. “Why’d you give me your last name?”

“Because you gave me yours.” 

“Nope.” Brem popped the “p.” “Brem’s my first name. My last name is Tyler.” 

“So you have a last name for a first name and a first name for a last name,” said Oliver. 

“I have never thought of that before, but I guess you’re right. The Brem is short for Bremsstrahlung.” 

“As in Bremsstrahlung radiation?” said Oliver. 

Brem looked amazed. “People never know that!” 

“Well, I’m not, you know, ‘people,’” said Oliver, lamely. Dad always made those proclamations so much grander. And then, because he felt a little bad about being touchy about it, he said, “I’m Oliver.” 

“Oliver Watson-Holmes. Like Oliver Wendell Holmes. Who I met once and he was very grouchy before breakfast, so just, word of warning.” 

Oliver had heard the Oliver Wendell Holmes thing before, so he knew that: “Oliver Wendell Holmes died in the nineteenth century.” 

“Yup,” said Brem, cheerfully, popping his “p” again. And then, “Come here, I want to show you this.” 

Certifiable, thought Oliver, staring after him. He should definitely not follow him. 

Except that he was walking toward a red box in the field and Oliver was _certain_ that had not been there when he’d got there. 

“Hang on,” said Oliver, running past Brem and up to the box and staring at it. “Where’d that come from?” 

“I’m interested in your theories,” said Brem, looking amused and making an expansive gesture with his hands. 

Oliver felt laughed at again, which he definitely didn’t like. He said, “I supposed you’re going to tell me it’s aliens.” 

“I’m interested in your theories,” Brem said again, passively. 

But Oliver didn’t have any theories. Oliver circled around the box and had not a single theory. A box had just shown up in the middle of this empty field. 

Oliver decided to try to open it and found it locked and stepped back, stymied. He could pick the lock but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it with Brem right there. 

And then Brem handed him a key. “Go on.” 

“Wait, do you _own_ this box?” 

“She’d be very offended if she heard you say that,” said Brem. 

“Who? Is there someone in the box?” 

“Open it,” said Brem. 

Oliver hesitated, thought of being pushed into the box and kidnapped and probably killed. “You open it,” he said, and gave the key back to Brem. He _did_ have some sense of self-preservation; Papa had taught him well. 

“Fair enough,” said Brem, after a second, and opened the box. 

Except that it was…

“Bigger on the inside,” said Brem, helpfully. 

“Hang on,” said Oliver, holding a hand up, his brain tumbling over the theories flooding it. He poked his head in the box, stared at the expansive space, walked around the box again, poked his head back inside. Then he looked at Brem and said, “Does it have to do with dimensions?” 

Brem smiled at him, and Oliver didn’t feel laughed at at all. “How’d you like to meet Oliver Wendell Holmes?” 

“It’s a time machine?” said Oliver, and that didn’t even sound ridiculous to him anymore. He was standing half in one dimension and half in another. _Anything_ was possible. 

“Time and space,” said Brem, practically beaming with pride. 

“I want to see the aliens that pulverized the sheep,” said Oliver, in a rush. “And then Jack the Ripper. And then my parents’ house because they are going to _love_ this.” 

And then he texted his father: _It was aliens. –OWH_


End file.
